“There’s all that is left of my Christmas money,” she said, sadly, “seventeen francs and two sous.  If it isn’t enough to pay for the cushions, I’ll write to Cousin Kate, and maybe she will lend me the rest.”

Madame gathered up the handful of coin, and slowly rose.  “It is only a step to the carriage-house,” she said.  “If you will kindly ring for Berthe to bring a lamp we will look to see how much damage has been done.”

It was an unusual procession that filed down the garden walk a few minutes later.  First came Berthe, in her black dress and white cap, holding a lamp high above her head, and screwing her forehead into a mass of wrinkles as she peered out into the surrounding darkness.  After her came madame, holding up her dress and stepping daintily along in her high-heeled little slippers.  Joyce brought up the rear, stumbling along in the darkness of madame’s large shadow, so absorbed in her troubles that she did not see the amused expression on the face of the grinning satyr in the fountain.

Eve, looking across at Adam, seemed to wink one of her stony eyes, as much as to say, “Humph!  Somebody else has been getting into trouble.  There’s more kinds of forbidden fruit than one; pony-cart cushions, for instance.”

Berthe opened the door, and madame stepped inside the carriage-house.  With her skirts held high in both hands, she moved around among the wreck of the cushions, turning over a bit with the toe of her slipper now and then.

Madame wore velvet dinner-gowns, it is true, and her house was elegant in its fine old furnishings bought generations ago; but only her dressmaker and herself knew how many times those gowns had been ripped and cleaned and remodelled.  It was only constant housewifely skill that kept the antique furniture repaired and the ancient brocade hangings from falling into holes.  None but a French woman, trained in petty economies, could have guessed how little money and how much thought was spent in keeping her table up to its high standard of excellence.

Now as she looked and estimated, counting the fingers of one hand with the thumb of the other, a wish stirred in her kind old heart that she need not take the child’s money; but new cushions must be bought, and she must be just to herself before she could be generous to others.  So she went on with her estimating and counting, and then called Gabriel to consult with him.

“Much of the same hair can be used again,” she said, finally, “and the cushions were partly worn, so that it would not be right for you to have to bear the whole expense of new ones.  I shall keep sixteen,—­no, I shall keep only fifteen francs of your money, mademoiselle.  I am sorry to take any of it, since you have been so frank with me; but you must see that it would not be justice for me to have to suffer in consequence of your fault.  In France, children do nothing without the permission of their elders, and it would be well for you to adopt the same rule, my dear mademoiselle.”